


In December

by phenanthrene_blue



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Bisexuality, Christmas, Colorado Rockies, Dream Manipulation, Dysfunctional Relationships, I think it's an AU now, M/M, Milwaukee Brewers, Non-Famous Family Members As Characters, Off-Season, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 19:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phenanthrene_blue/pseuds/phenanthrene_blue
Summary: The first time Christian has a dream about Nolan, it’s about baseball.They’re playing in a game together.





	In December

The first time Christian has a dream about Nolan, it’s about baseball.

They’re playing in a game together.

It’s all spontaneous and real-time, and not a replay of something that really happened. So in that sense, this game is much like any other game, except for the fact that Christian is playing second base. He’s really not very good at it, as his reflexes are too used to playing in right, where everything is slowed down. He feels oversized, gangly and obtuse and out-of-place, playing a position he hasn’t played since he was thirteen.

Nolan is playing his usual third.

Christian can’t make out who is at first, or at even at short, because the distances seem off, too _great,_ and thecolors are all wrong. Well, the grass is still green, the sky is still blue, and the infield dirt is its standard reddish-brown, but other things are…his jersey, his pants, his glove, and his shoes are all _white._ It’s all blank: Christian doesn’t know what team he’s on, what team Nolan is on, or even _where_ he’s playing. Is it April? September? Noon? Seven? Nine in the morning? He doesn’t know.

The ball is hit to third, and everything slows down for a few seconds; Christian watches as Nolan fluidly scoops up the ball and whips it over to him. In that thin slice of time where he transfers the ball to his throwing hand, Christian notices that even the stitches on the baseball are _white._

It’s almost as if the game is an unfinished painting, devoid of color and depth in places. Like it’s a work in progress; still under construction somewhere.

He throws the ball to first, and it is, presumably, a double play. For the second and third outs, based on the crowd noise and the jog of the other nameless infielders away from him, and of Nolan, toward him.

“Nice work!” Nolan says. He smiles and grabs Christian into a hug. He smells like sweat and manual labor and freshly cut grass, almost like he’s mowed the entire outfield himself.

Something, _somewhere_ , slips, and the whole scene clouds up and clears quickly again in front of him, and slowly, the proper hue and saturation return to everything. Christian looks down and sees _color_ , the familiar Milwaukee navy blue, bleeding steadily upward across his jersey. The same for Nolan’s, which is rapidly infusing with royal purple as he walks away.

When Christian next looks down, he’s standing on the pitcher’s mound. His glove is different. Black. He recognizes it as…

Oh _God_. If he thought it was bad playing second, Christian is now _really_ nervous, because it’s not a matter of how many years ago or how rusty he might be - he’s _never_ pitched before.

“Okay, we’re going to make a few tweaks to the signs here, because Coach thinks there might be some…shenanigans.”

_He recognizes the voice._

Christian turns around, and the catcher lifts up his mask.

It’s Nolan again.

_***_

In theory, the dream _could’ve_ been exponentially weirder, like the time Lorenzo had told him about _his_ reoccurring dream, where he was back in Kansas City and George Clooney was his hitting coach.

Regardless, when Christian wakes up, the first thing he thinks is _well, that was pretty odd._

Christian doesn’t put much stock in dreams, however. Because, as he told Lorenzo, they’re basically just the mental equivalent of re-organizing a filing cabinet. Sometimes your favorite childhood comic book gets sorted in with your taxes, and your brain ends up having to rifle through all of the magazine clippings and instruction manuals of your daily life to get it all in the right place again.

It’s December first, a Saturday. He’s _home_ , at least until February, at his mother’s house in Westlake, and it’s 8:47 AM, and now he’s got to get up. He’s going to go to the gym, and then at eleven he’s going to meet with the local newspaper to talk about charity.

And then he’s going to help his mom pick out a Christmas tree. And clean the refrigerator, because she asked nicely. And watch football with his brothers, who are staying a few weeks for the holidays. And maybe call some old high school friends to catch up. And do all of other the things that other people who _weren’t_ just voted National League MVP might do on an ordinary Saturday, December first.

But _still_. Christian thinks as he walks a slow lap around his bedroom. It _was_ odd.

Especially because he usually doesn’t remember his dreams.

***

The second time Christian dreams about Nolan, it is more interesting.

This time, it’s near midnight, in the same unmarked ballpark where Christian made his pitching debut two days earlier. At least, he _thinks_ it is.

The field is lit up and bright, almost blinding in contrast to the black, opaque sky. They’re the only people in the entire park, and it’s completely silent, save the low, nondescript hum of the stadium lights.

And the sound of them talking, which they’ve been doing for _hours. Just him and Nolan._

It’s _cold_ , and it feels even colder in the highest bleacher seats where they’re sitting. The wind catches in some particular jut of the architecture and swirls upward, a hard draft that seems to rattle the place to its roots.

Christian shudders and interrupts Nolan’s story, watching his breath fog out into the night air. “I’m fuckin’ _freezing_ here, dude.”

Nolan slides over, closer, until their knees bump. Without another word, he wraps both his arms around Christian and squeezes him hard, settling just a little behind him, resting his chin on Christian’s shoulder.

It doesn’t feel too sudden. In fact, Christian thinks it’s…nice, sitting together like this, sharing a little warmth, the same space, the same air, for a few minutes.

Until Christian decides to be _awkward_.

“…Don’t you have a girlfriend?” He isn’t even sure what he meant, but realizes how it _sounds,_ what it _implies,_ before he can take it back.

“Yeah, but…”

 _Nothing good ever begins with those two words._ Nolan gets halfway into a sigh and continues.

“She’s been around so long that my family’s practically _adopted_ her, and…”

“And…?”

“Well, I think of her now as like…like just my favorite cousin, yaknow? She’s great, but I…”

Nolan stops. “I shouldn’t talk about this.”

“I mean, if it makes you feel better, go for it.”

Christian almost isn’t sure he wants him to; it’s like there’s something prying, almost too _intimate_ about it.

“Tell you what.” Nolan smiles a little and points to the field. “I’ll race you to home plate. Beat me there, and I’ll tell you more.”

And he takes off running, feet clambering loudly over the bleachers before Christian has a chance to even reply. So he just follows in turn, down the tunnels and ramps of the park, down to where it’s more humid, more musty concrete than fresh air.

Somehow, he knows _where_ he’s going, like he’s run through this particular maze before, and he finds his way out through the concourse, down through the infield seats, eventually vaulting over the railing into the dugout.

“Cheater!” Nolan yells from in front of him. Now, they’re both running as hard as they can, Christian from first and Nolan from third, and somehow, they both seem to converge on home plate at exactly the same time. Nolan dives, arm outstretched, and Christian slides in, twisting onto his back, feeling home plate beneath his bare knuckles before he tags Nolan’s wrist. _Out. Definitely out._

They lie there together, in the disturbed, frigid dirt, with no speech forming between them. Christian inhales, catching his breath on a lungful of cold air, and looks upwards, to where snowflakes now begin their lazy descent.

***

The air is actually cold when Christian wakes up. It’s not-quite-dawn outside, and he’s wrapped too tightly in an oversized fleece blanket, but, like always in winter, his mom’s got the fucking thermostat set too low.

Yes, _that’s it._ That must be it. He’s cold, and his brain is inventing strange compensatory mechanisms to deal with it at night.

More filing cabinets tipped over in his head somewhere. Or maybe it’s the freezer this time. Christian is fine with that explanation.

Until he decides to be _curious._

At first, he’s just playing on his phone, thumbing halfheartedly through Twitter and Instagram. Then he watches the video where Nolan thanks everyone for voting in the MVP race, where he finished third to Christian’s first.

He watches Nolan get steamed to the point of needing restraint after being hit by a pitch, watches him hit for the cycle and then be attacked by his teammates, emerging from the scrum with a drop of blood trickling from his eyebrow. Christian watches Nolan smile, sees the particular way the corners of his dark eyes crinkle up, how a little pinkness always seems to top off his cheekbones; how all of his expressions are somehow intense and focused.

More scrolling and browsing, and it’s not terribly long before Christian realizes that he actually _likes_ looking at Nolan. Sure, he had noticed him, given that they played in the World Baseball Classic together, and against each other in regular-season games and then the Divisional series, but Christian had never really _looked_ at him. 

But he does now. Christian finds him attractive and very much so, and he wishes he had held on to more memories of him, more things that seemed insignificant at the time.

Looking at Nolan; thinking about him _this way_ doesn’t really bother him.

Christian had already admitted to himself a while ago that he liked men as well as women. He’s had all sorts of thoughts, everything from the inconsequential to the perhaps-a-bit-too-intense, about other guys he’s played with or played against. Thoughts he’d just had to discard somewhere to the side because team chemistry and appearances and _not making a complete ass of himself_ were more important. At least for the time being, because the world wouldn’t allow it.

But right now, where it’s just him and the early morning, and there’s no season to worry about, he can think whatever he wants. It’s not like they’re on the same team or anything. It’s not like he’s going to act on any of it.

He loses twenty, or maybe thirty minutes, and eventually somehow ends up on Nolan’s mother’s Facebook page.

There _is_ a girl, a cute brunette with a round face and wavy hair, in the family photos. In most of them, in fact. Ubiquitous and nameless, she only sometimes stands next to Nolan, always with the same coy grin. There is little physical contact, no eye contact, no body language, _nothing_ to suggest that she is, in fact, his _girlfriend_ , if she is.

Even in pictures that are just the two of them together, they lean away from one another, instead of toward each other, toward the affection and dependance of love, as one would expect. It’s unusual, in that their chemistry, whatever it is, is definitely not romantic, it’s just…well…

…almost familial.

 _What Nolan told him in the dream._ He had to have heard that detail about their relationship somewhere. Or he heard a rumor. Or he read it, just another line of text somewhere in another day’s boredom spent on social media. He had to; he just doesn’t remember where or from whom or in what context.

The coincidence bothers Christian the entire day.

***

The next time he sleeps, Christian’s mind starts to slip from its moorings.

He’s back in Miller Park, in his home clubhouse. Lonely and still, everything is undisrupted and dim the way it always is after a late home game. Christian is standing there by himself, almost like he’s supposed to be doing something, but he’s not entirely sure what.

There’s a commotion somewhere on the other side of the room, some feet shuffling, and a door closing.

And it’s _Nolan_ , wearing a black t-shirt that’s perhaps a size too small for him, smiling and breathing at the quick pace of someone who has been running.

“Hey.” Christian says.

Nolan just runs forward more, draws Christian into his embrace, and kisses him. It’s hard and abrupt, with the sting of their front teeth knocking together for a second, and _commanding_ , almost as if Nolan’s continued existence somehow depends on it.

Then Nolan backs off just a hint, like he wants Christian to trust him. And Christian leans in a _lot_ , an act of pure surrender. He becomes too aware of how wet and lush Nolan’s mouth feels on his, the soft slide of their tongues together; the warmth of Nolan’s hands on his face.

Nolan pulls away, breaking it off with a broad, wet lick from Christian’s lower lip to his chin, before he stops and gives him a little bite under his jaw. God, he wants _more_.

He wants Nolan to kiss him _everywhere_ , wants to let it be hot and forbidden and exhilarating. Christian wants to touch him, taste him, to make Nolan succumb to every single thing that he’s feeling.

Christian knows what this feeling is. It’s _desire. 200-proof, raw and unfiltered, and potent enough to kill him._

When Christian wakes up, he’s grasping two handfuls of blanket and his lips are tingling, almost as if he’s been bitten, still _bound_ to what happened in his dream.

He had just lied down on the couch, not even intending to take a nap.

He finds his phone, probably intending to just look at more of Nolan, but he has a strange text, reading simply “…?”.

It’s from a number he does not recognize, a cryptic ellipsis followed by a question mark. It’s probably a wrong number; the kind of thing where someone meant “-72” but typed “-27” instead, but something about it is the perfect description of what Christian’s feeling; a loaded pause followed by questions.

_Why the hell does he keep dreaming about Nolan Arenado?_

He ignores the text and gets up.

He spends the entire day periodically rolling his gaze toward the ceiling, closing his eyes, a slight smile spreading on his face as he remembers the _kiss_ ; the _ardor_.

***

“ _Yeli._ ” Nolan says. He makes a low growl that is softened by the movement of his thumb, affectionately smoothing an errant lock of hair away from Christian’s forehead. “I can call you that, right?”

“Yeah. If you want.”

They’re in his apartment, just north of Milwaukee. They’re in his room, on his _bed_.

_It’s raining. They had been watching the thunderstorm with the lights off. At least, they had meant to keep the lights off._

Somehow, they had gotten turned on. The lights. And Nolan. And Christian.

Now Nolan is wearing nothing, and Christian is wearing only his shirt.

Christian almost wonders why, but then realizes that he’s on his knees, between Nolan’s thighs. _Inside_ him. Buried, sheathed as far as he can go, and he’s never done _this_ before but it feels _amazing_. Mostly, simply, because it’s _Nolan_.

Lightning rips its way across the horizon outside, and thunder follows suit, so loud that it’s probably cracking the building’s foundation.

Christian lets himself admire Nolan’s nakedness. The way winter is just starting to take the tan lines from his big arms. His tattoos, the cross on his wrist, the Greek letters under his collarbone; his thin silver necklace, his sparse brown chest hair and dark pink nipples. How he’s a little shorter, but strong and thick all over.

And then Christian can’t stop looking, staring _down_ at the one hot point of contact that renders them, just for now, _joined_.

“You’re such a fucking tease, Yeli. You can _move_ , you know. _It’s not…really that hard._ ”

And Christian does. He’s slow at first, like a high school kid mimicking what he's seen in porn. And then he puts his hips into it, feeling the way Nolan’s body responds, never taking his eyes away from the stupefied, pleasured look on Nolan’s face.

“ _Shit_ , oh my _God._ ” Nolan grunts. His eyes are closed. His eyelashes are dark and _so_ long. His dark hair is tousled and damp. He is so goddamn _beautiful_ that it almost hurts.

Christian touches him, really _uses_ his hands, and he puts as much emotion into it as he can.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even _contemplate_ stopping until Nolan shivers and bites out a warning, and everything becomes just blurs and moans and melding shadows and one more loud boom of thunder.

Christian wakes up with a sharp intake of breath, with his head tilted up, and he feels that his face is completely knotted up with pleasure.

This morning’s thought: _Well, that got out of hand quickly._

 _So_ quickly, that he has to get up, close the door as quietly as he can, take off his pajama pants, and get it back _in_ hand before he walks around _thunderstruck_ all day.

***

Thirty minutes later, Christian’s having coffee and a protein bar when he gets another text. From the same unknown number as last time.

_“Did you feel it?”_

Did he feel _what,_ exactly? This is getting a little uncomfortable.

 _He felt_ something _, all right, but the text can’t possibly refer to…_

He has an idea. Growing up in California, _did you feel that?_ usually referred to one thing.

“Hey mom.” Christian calls out to the office across the hall, where his mom was working on the computer all morning. “Did we have an earthquake a little while ago?”

“I don’t think so, why?”

He doesn’t respond. Okay, maybe not quite the right idea, but a good guess.

He glances at his phone again, looks at the number. It’s a 949 area code, which Christian knows is south, somewhere approaching San Diego. But who cares? Half the wrong numbers and spam-calls he gets are from random California area codes.

He Googles the number. Nothing obvious, or even suggestive. The coincidences are all…just…weird.

***

Then Nolan actually shows up at his mom’s house.

After he won MVP, a _lot_ of people showed up to the house. Aunts and uncles and cousins, and most of his teammates, and former classmates, and Marcell and JT and Giancarlo and Javy Baez from the Cubs. He had, in fact, accumulated quite a collection of all the beers and wines and whiskeys that they had brought him.

So it’s not entirely surprising that Nolan would visit. He just drives up and parks his truck in front of the house. Christian is in the kitchen when he hears the doorbell.

He opens the front door, and there he is.

“Where’s your mom?” Nolan asks, pointing over at the garage, empty and probably with the door still open from where his brother had been looking for the ornaments.

“Christmas shopping with my brothers. Back around three.”

Nolan gets the warmest smile that Christian has ever seen on _anyone_ , and despite the bright morning sun overhead, his eyes have quickly become so dilated that they’re almost straight black.

Christian doesn’t ask any questions; he doesn’t even have to read him; he just pulls him inside by the collar of his shirt, closes the door, and lets Nolan kiss him until he’s out of breath and goosebumps are forming everywhere on his body.

“What do you _want_ , Nolan?”

“ _You_.” Nolan whines against Christian’s earlobe, “ _Shit_ , any part of you that you’ll give me.”

Christian basically pushes him backwards, all the way up the foyer stairs. Their clothes come off piece by piece, just collateral on the floor from an epic, passionate battle, until they’re in his mom’s bathroom, where she’s got a whirlpool tub and a great view and enough space to play basketball in.

They look at each other and grin simultaneously. _Nolan’s too far in his head to not understand._ Christian fills the tub and they climb in together, and it’s not long before they splash around and wrestle in the hot water, the room filling with steam, hands slipping over wet flesh.

And then Christian lets Nolan take him _right_ there. Whatever Nolan wants, however he wants, as hard as he wants, until everything’s wet and messy and the water has sloshed everywhere and overflowed onto the floor, right into the nice rug and into the glass jars that his mom’s got candles in.

(Christian never understood why she had them next to the bahtub anyway.)

While his heart rate slows, Christian leans his elbows on the edge of the tub and wipes a smear through the fog on the window with his wrist. He looks out over the lake with Nolan’s hands on his shoulders, looks out to the villas and pontoon boats and low lines of the yacht club, and he sighs. Nolan does the same, almost mockingly, and he leans over and kisses Christian between his shoulder blades, and then down, letting his mouth follow his hands.

 _He could get used to this._ He could do this forever. He could _actually fall in love_ with Nolan. Maybe he is already.

If the world would only allow it.

***

 _Fuck_ , Christian wishes that one _hadn’t_ been a dream.

Fuck, fuck, _Holy_ _fuck._

He wakes up overheating and sweaty and several steps beyond aroused, and his head is bliss, just unrestrained, chaotic bliss.

“Oh my _Gooooddd_ , Nolan.” He whispers softly into his pillow, letting a smile willingly overtake his face.

Christ, it’s only taken a few days, but Christian’s got it _so bad_ for Nolan that he’s not sure what he’s going to do. He thinks that if he actually _saw_ Nolan right now, he might have to dive under the nearest piece of furniture and hide.

It’s the kind of dream that will probably ruin his rational waking thoughts for a whole week, and he’s okay with it. 

(And he doesn’t think he’ll be able to go into his mom’s bedroom for a month without his mouth going dry and his heart thrumming away uneasily over the memory).

Today, Christian actually doesn’t get out of bed for a while. He tries to fall back asleep and deliberately tries to cross that chasm between conscious and unconscious, hoping that he will find Nolan again in there, _somewhere_ , but nothing happens beyond an hour of rolling around in a restless, half-asleep state.

His phone buzzes to his right.

He’s got another text from the same 949 number.

_“I KNOW you felt THAT. You definitely did!”_

In the movies, when the protagonist wakes from a dream, and is uncertain if he is still dreaming, he pinches himself. Pain means you’re awake, usually. Christian digs his nails into his wrist until it starts to hurt a little, which is familiar and expected and honestly, a relief.

So Christian is awake, but something simply doesn’t make sense, and it’s starting to unsettle him. Too many happenstances, too many coincidences all at once. _Something_ is in his head while he sleeps, and he’s not really protesting it, insomuch as he wants to know _why_. _And how. And what’s with these texts?_

He turns his phone over several times in his hands, and texts back.

_“Do I know you?”_

There is no response. He tries again.

_“What’s this about?”_

No return message, even after several hours.

_“How did you get my number?”_

Silence.

He waits until eleven at night, when his family has gone to sleep, and sits up in the living room, the only light from the Christmas tree. When Christian feels like he’s finally calm enough to do it, he calls the mysterious number.

It rings twice, and then there’s a soft click, and Christian hears is what he thinks is breathing through the quiet on the other end. _Heavy_ breathing.

So he talks first.

“ _Okay, who_ are _you?_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote something deliberately ambiguous here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16371713
> 
> Playing with this concept more, so it's kind of a sequel? Or rather, I didn't set out to do this, but a glacier came and pushed it into place, or something.
> 
> Disclaimer: I have absolutely no claim to any knowledge of anyone's relationships with their families/significant others. This is all fiction and artistic license. If my imagination would stop (mis)behaving like a Philip Roth character, that would be great.


End file.
